


Investigation into the Audiographic Predilections of one Doctor H. Gottlieb, PhD, by Doctors N. Geiszler, PhDs

by orphan



Series: Frankenstein and the Newt [10]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Kaiju Newton Geiszler, M/M, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Tentacle Sex, mostly feels tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan
Summary: “No, no. Please. Please tell me your secret Thoughts On Punk. I’ll beg. I’ll suck your dick. I’ll beg while sucking your dick. I’ll do anything. Please, Professor, school me.”
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: Frankenstein and the Newt [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/377038
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Investigation into the Audiographic Predilections of one Doctor H. Gottlieb, PhD, by Doctors N. Geiszler, PhDs

**Author's Note:**

> ... chaser.
> 
> Set chronologically after "Newton's Cradle", because everyone needs some angsty tentacle porn flashbacks.
> 
> _I'm a bassline junkie,[tell them again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sNb3Mh1ABg)._

Nearly two months after Newton’s return to the Shatterdome, Hermann walks into a cafe and knows he’s dreaming.

He remembers this place; in another life, he’d agreed to meet Newton here, the first time they ever’d seen each other in person. And the last time, at least for a while.

The cafe has the hazy, unexamined quality to it of dreams. In truth, Hermann doesn’t remember it all that well; can’t recall the name, can barely remember the city. The tables were reclaimed wood, the chairs black metal. Edison bulbs hung from the ceiling at erratic intervals, exposed cables dripping with dust. The wall was navy, he thinks, although here it’s plum and maybe that’s the influence of Newton’s memory, because of _course_ Newton is here, too. Actually here, sitting in the same corner he’d been sitting in all those years ago, in his faded KMFDM t-shirt and ripped black jeans and piebald, stud-toed Doc Martens.

His eyes catch Hermann’s, and the recognition is instant, like it had been all those years ago.

Hermann goes to him, a record skipping in a groove, a binary star swinging in orbit. Newton leaps to his feet, hands scrubbing nervously against his jeans, a shivering ball of over-anxious quantum string, eighty percent caffeine by volume.

“Newton?” Hermann extends his hand.

And Newton takes it, warm and dry-palmed, and says:

“D-doctor Hottlieb? Fuck! I mean Gottlieb! Hotmann Gottlieb! Hermann! Hermann Gottlieb, that’s you! Ahahahahah please just kill me now!”

And the eye that won’t meet his is ringed in red, and the hand he’s still holding is attached to an arm that scrolls with colorful, snarling kaiju. Self-inflicted scars, permanently fixed into a self image, and Hermann says:

“Are you trying to proposition me, Doctor Geiszler?”

And Newt’s eyes dart nervously even as they peer coyly up through sinfully long lashes, and he says:

“W-would that work? If I was. Um. Hypothetically. Doing that.”

Hermann takes a step closer, pulls Newton closer still. “Would you want it to?”

“Y-yes.” Newton’s voice is a panicked squeak and a breathless whisper, both at once.

So Hermann wraps a hand around his throat, gentle but firm, and tilts his head up, watches his eyes flutter shut and his lips part, and says: “All you ever have to do is ask, darling.” And kisses him. Not chastely.

Newton groans into it, dropping the pretense of the blushing naïf, one hand coming up to press on Hermann’s back, the other to grip, not gently, at the flesh of Hermann’s arse (always the good side, even here). He pulls Hermann forward and Hermann pushes him back, until his legs hit something solid, and his hands fly back to stop him tipping over.

The kiss breaks, and when Hermann’s fingers fly up it to pull it back he finds the leash he’s looking for in Newton’s stupid too-thin tie. Because this isn’t the cafe where they met. It’s their lab, their old lab, and Newton is hoisting himself up onto the low bookshelf, the one beneath the blackboard, the one Hermann spent countless hours imagining fucking Newton into, long before they ever got the chance to try.

Newton is making gasping, needy sounds, lips full and parted, open and willing as Hermann licks and sucks and bites. Hungry, _angry_ —the world is ending, they’re all going to die, how is there any time to be anything _but_ angry?—and he pushes Newton’s knees wide, slightly too wide, hitting resistance from too-tight jeans and too-tight ligaments, but it’s enough for their pricks to rub together, too hard and not hard enough between too many layers.

Because this is the lab and Newton is in his ridiculous rolled-up shirtsleeves and his stupid black tie and Hermann has an almost choking grip on the latter when he pulls back from the kiss long enough to growl:

“I always wanted to fuck you through the floor whenever you wore this ridiculous outfit.”

And Newton, who has no sense of time or place, pulls back and splutters:

“You always told me it was unprofessional!”

Hermann growls and bites his neck in annoyance. “Yes, how could anyone but you _possibly_ think wearing the costume of a antiquated street gang was in any way professional. I suppose you thought it was a joke no one was in on, you incorrigible little Rude Boy, you.” He squeezes Newton’s prick through his jeans as he says it, getting a choked off shudder for his efforts.

“W-what the f— How do you know about rudies? You? Wait . . . wait holy shit are you . . . are you a secret ska fan? Am I seriously only finding this out right now?” He pushes Hermann back, enough to look into his eyes, expression delighted. Because _of course_ it is.

They’re still rubbing against each other, desperate and shameless, but that’s never stopped them before—honestly, once they managed an entire argument while Newton was giving (exceptionally good) head—and it’s apparently not going to stop them now, either.

“Not that degenerate white boy drivel _you_ call ska, no.”

“Oh my god.” Newton doesn’t just look delighted by this information; he looks positively _orgasmic_. “Oh my god you _are_ a secret ska fan. A fucking ska _purist_ , even. How? How did I not know this? It’s been nearly twenty years, dude! Why did you keep this from me?”

“You never sodding asked, for one.” Hermann bites him again, on the earlobe, then tongues over old piercing scars for good measure.

“Oh fuck oh fuck that’s good. Fuck. Oh god fuck me you secret 2 Tone sex god.”

“For Heaven’s sake I don’t know why this surprises you; you know I spent most of my formative years in England.”

“Like you’d ever— god fuck— ever let me forget any time you op-open your ‘sodding mouth.’” Newton impression of his accent is actually getting rather good, though Hermann will never admit as much. Then Newton’s whole body jolts and Hermann knows he’s just had An Idea. And the Idea is this:

“Oh my god _this_ is why you hate punk so much? It is, isn’t it? Oh fuck forget the— the fucking virus. I have just unlocked _the_ secret of the century.”

“Newton . . .”

“No, no. Please. Please tell me your secret Thoughts On Punk. I’ll beg. I’ll suck your dick. I’ll beg _while_ sucking your dick. I’ll do anything. Please, Professor, school me.”

Hermann sighs, though it’s part of the act. They’ve certainly had stranger pillow talk, and obliging Newton in these situations definitely has . . . perks. (His exceptional cocksucking skills, for one.)

By now, Hermann’s hand has worked open Newton’s jeans, trapped prick bouncing free. Hermann takes it in hand—hot and thick and uncut—as Newton groans and arches up, wanton and eager and shameless. And Hermann says:

“Completely aside from being a talentless perversion of an already appropriated genre, it’s simply the falsity of it. From the moment McLaren scouted Lydon—”

“Oh god you know their _na-aa-ames_ oh fuck oh fuck I’m dead, I have to be dead. This is Heaven.”

“Shut up. As I was saying, Lydon was scouted precisely to create the exact atmosphere of manufactured antiestablishment falsity McLaren needed to sell Westwood’s—”

“Oh god! Oh fuck yes!”

“—carefully cultivated, faux-subversive fashion line. It was a capitalist con job from the start; predatory hucksters exploiting idealistic young men to make bank. They weren’t even subtle about it, but by the time Lydon caught on the, as they say, _Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle_ had already been executed.”

And at the title drop, Newton throws back his head, and comes in long, hot, _filling_ bursts. Hermann holds him through it, embrace gentling, pulling Newton close and closer still, warm and solid against his chest. Newton babbles, writhing, slowly coming down with one last shudder, hands buried in Hermann’s hair and against his back and his arse and his thigh. Hermann, who is still achingly hard, but prepared to wait, just a little while, frotting lazily against thick muscle.

“Fuck,” murmurs Newton, laughing in pleasure. “Fuck, dude.”

“And that,” Hermann announces, pressing one last sweet kiss against warm, smooth skin, “is why your taste in music is entirely execrable.”

“Fuck I love you, you miserable, prissy, _hipster_ fucking bastard.”

“You aren’t so intolerable yourself, you juvenile lunatic.”

Blessed silence, for a few heartbeats at least. Just warmth and closeness and the lingering fuzzy glow of Newton’s orgasm, slowly fading. And then:

“I’m sorry.”

And Hermann can _feel_ it; the mood turning, melancholy seeping in like rot.

“Newton . . .”

“I’m sorry I can’t . . . be _this_ for you, anymore.”

“For Heaven’s sake Newton do not—” Hermann starts clenching his fist, open and closed, open and closed. No, no, no . . . _there_. The bite of nails against his palm.

“But we can still have this, right? We can still—”

“Don’t you bloody dare!” Hermann snaps, stubborn to a fault, as the world comes racing back and—

* * *

_“No! Please don’t!”_

—Hermann jolts awake.

In some respects, things change very little. He’s still pressed closely against Newton’s chest, still achingly hard and rubbing against solid muscle. But the muscle is not a thigh and Newton’s chest is warm, smooth scale, not skin. Still a hand in Hermann’s hair, claws scratching light at his scalp. Another gripping the thin hollow of his arse. But the limbs that hold open his thigh and undulate against his back and encircle his waist are decidedly less human. As is the thick, long prick that curls around his own, extending behind his balls and filling his arse.

Newton begins to withdraw, and Hermann grabs the first thing he can find. A tentacle, as it turns out. Thick and smooth and strong. “Don’t you bloody dare, you insufferable pricktease!”

_“Hermann..”_

“Finish what you bloody started!” He begins to rock his hips in earnest, riding the prick inside him, rubbing against the parts that aren’t. He’s agonizingly hard and inhumanly full and, Lord, but it’s good. Nothing he’d imagined before he’d had it; something he doesn’t want to give up, now that it’s here.

_“Oh god, oh fuck, Herms please . . .”_

Hermann arches up, nuzzling into the soft flesh of Newt’s neck. Pressing kisses to sensitive gill-slits and around the brilliant blue-neon glimmer of ocelli.Purely selfish, taking every pleasure, the feel of luxurious scale, of being held, encased. Both of them helpless and powerful, all at once.

And in the way it does, Hermann’s sensation becomes Newton’s becomes his again, tightening his balls, shuddering through his skin. He arches and sighs as his whole body trembles with release, painted against Newton’s scales. Newton comes again, too, with a growl he can’t quite choke back, and Hermann groans from the pleasure-pain of being pumped so full.

They hold each other through the come down, a few last lazy tases, sensation to the point of almost-pain, as they shiver and come back online.

Hermann is blissed out and intends to stay that way, so Newton obliges with the clean up. There is . . . quite a lot to clean up, as there always is with Newton, and Hermann just hums as the thick girth pulls itself from his arse, flood of alien cum spilling in its wake. There’s a reason he’s building them a pool; if they eat through too many more towels the Marshal may grow suspicious.

Newton cleans them as best he can and shifts so they aren’t entirely in the wet spot. Hermann just curls closer—it’s still sod-off early, he’s fairly sure—and waits until Newton, too, eventually relaxes, lowering his large arm and cocooning in his tail around them.

“Newton?” Hermann mumbles, sex-drunk and sleepy, and gets a curious rumble in reply he can feel more than hear. “The only thing I need you to be is you. Please don’t think otherwise.”

Newton’s feelings in response are . . . complex. So Hermann leave him to them, and drifts back to sleep.

When he wakes, Newton has already left for the lab, the sound of The Specials playing too loud behind the doors.

* * *

So they have good days, and bad. On the former, Newton is almost like his old self—a furious whirlwind of disaster, loud and impossible to ignore—although there’s a new edge of restraint Hermann suspects will never go away. Newton can’t be unrestrained now, not fully, not without dire consequences. But he is learning to find himself in the space he has.

And Hermann . . . Hermann is not an affectionate man. He knows this about himself. Casual touch was not an acceptable practice in the Gottlieb household, particularly once Hermann had reached an age his father deemed too old for his mother’s coddling. It’s not that he’s adverse to human contact per se, he’s just unsure how to engage in it outside of sex. The logistics of his body don’t help; Hermann is by no means as fragile as some assume, but nor is he entirely robust, particularly with regard to masculine roughhousing. And so his social relationships tend to be . . . restrained. People either fear hurting him or draw away from the first time they realize they have.

And then there’s Newton; as always, the obnoxiously self-confident outlier in Hermann’s otherwise intentionally staid life. People forget, of course, he has medical training. Even Hermann forgets this, at times. But Newton knows how bodies are put together and how they fail, and while his interactions are far from universally perfect, he has, at least, always _tried_.

And now? Now it’s time for Hermann to return the favor.

So he touches Newton, now. A comforting hand against an enormous, armored shoulder; a casual kiss on a suede-soft snout. Newton startled the first time and the second and the tenth, but one day, Hermann knows, he won’t.

 _“I know what you’re doing, dude,”_ he nonetheless snaps, at the thirteenth time. Unlucky thirteen.

“Ah, yes,” Hermann sneers, voice a stark contrast to where his hand softly traces the edges of pebbled scutes. “Attempting to comfort my lover with physical contact. I’ve been found out. How dastardly. And to think I would’ve gotten away with it, too.”

 _“Dude did you just make a— No, fuck you don’t distract me! You don’t have to . . . to make yourself. Touch this.”_ He gestures you himself. Today, Hermann thinks, is a bad day.

“I shan’t.” In truth, Hermann finds Newton’s new body somewhat fascinating. He has no academic interest whatsoever in astrobiology (or any biology) but a keen, personal interest in the feel of Newton’s new skin beneath his own and of the tremendously interesting applications of near limitless strength and stamina and multiple limbs. Not even necessarily sexually (though certainly sexually). When Newton forgets himself he can occasionally be, well. Fun. In a visceral, physical way. He jumped Hermann up three flights of stairs last week—a standing jump—to win an argument and while Hermann complained bitterly, on principle, the experience had been . . . exhilarating. The most intimate reminder that they are _alive_ , both of them, in spite of the worst two universes have had to offer.

So that’s Hermann’s . . . little project.

Newton’s meanwhile, is apparently trying to unearth Hermann’s actual taste in music, now his blue-silicone brains have apparently been blown. And Lord forfend he do something so plebeian as _ask_. No, he has to _experiment_.

“Absolutely not,” Hermann snaps, the morning he come into the lab to the pounding torture of Skrillex, of all godawful things. Newton just makes a _tsk_ sound, and adds a note to his little notebook.

And the subject is dropped, or so Hermann thinks.

In the afternoon, Hermann takes them down to the lower levels to view their new lab. The space is nearing completion, just final fit-outs and the move-in to go. Newton has refused to take any part in the construction process, apparently taking the relocation as a deep and personal slight. Hermann doesn’t blame him exactly—it’s not an unreasonable assumption, that the PPDC would choose to hide away its most shameful secret—except, well. It simply isn’t the case.

 _“There’s a_ pool _?”_ Newton is standing in front of the facility in question, absolutely dumbstruck.

“Hence the location relative to the bay.”

_“This is seawater.”_

“Yes it is.”

_“Why?”_

Hermann rolls his eyes at the theatrics. “Why do you think? The Marshal is well aware of your physiological requirements. This way, you can come and go as you require. Discreetly.”

_“ . . . wait, what?”_

Hermann simply gestures at the pool and, after a moment, Newton takes the hint and dives in, motion fluid and natural. Hermann busies himself inspecting the rest of the room until:

_“It goes to the bay?”_

Newton is back within a minute, emerging from the water so thoughtlessly quickly it would be frightening, to someone who didn’t know him.

 _“It goes to the bay? It’s . . . you had them build me a secret escape tunnel? Holy shit dude,_ how _?”_

Hermann shrugs. “I put forth the proposal to Hansen and he agreed.”

_“Just like that?”_

“Newton . . .” Hermann starts, then doesn’t know how to continue. In truth, he thinks it’s an apology, of sorts. Hansen would’ve had Newton shot, if they hadn’t . . . intervened. And things worked out, but they very nearly didn’t, and even this least-worst-case outcome leaves Newton a prisoner, more-or-less, in his own home. Or worse, workplace. “You like it, then?” Hermann finally settles on.

_“Um. Dude, yeah. It’s . . . Shit. Thank you.”_

He’s dripping wet but, nonetheless, Hermann leans closer for a kiss. After a moment, Newton obliges; jaw parting and long, strange tongue emerging to lick tentatively at Hermann’s lips. Hermann sucks it, gently, his own tongue running the length of the slit at the tapered tip. Quick and sweet, and relatively chaste, all things considered.

Afterwards, while Newton is drying off on the towel he’d originally mocked Hermann for bringing, he asks:

_“I thought I would’ve gotten you with dubstep.”_

Hermann’s sneer is only partially affected. “That brostep _trash_ isn’t worth the bytes it’s stored on.”

This has the effect Hermann was aiming for, stopping Newton dead as he stares back in drop-jawed incredulity. _“No. Way. No way you just used ‘brostep’ in a sentence! No way you know what that is.”_

“Lowest-common-denominator American whiteboy garbage,” Hermann sniffs, pulling himself up as straight as he can go, the full Pompous Wanker. “Again.”

 _“I’m not taking that from you, dude! You are like_ the _whitest person on the planet! Ethnographers are on the hunt for your DNA right now as like a model organism of whiteness!”_

“Ah, yes. The Gottliebs, a family with a well-known and completely uncomplicated relationship with your quote-unquote ‘whiteness.’” He says it German. Just to really rub it in.

Newton actually chokes on his own tongue, which Hermann finds immensely satisfying. _“You did not! Dude! Dude, no fair you can’t pull that one on me, come on!”_

“I think you’ll find I’m able to use my own family trauma in—” is as far as Hermann gets before he hears the crash.

The both turn, argument cutting out, to see two workmen staring at them in horror. One has dropped a toolbox, hence the sound. The other is clutching a drill in a decidedly aggressive way. And Newton . . .

Newton has always been, as they say, a hand talker. Has never been afraid to get up in Hermann’s face, spittle flying, gestures flailing and erratic and, at times, superficially threatening. Hermann’s never taken it seriously because he’s never taken _Newton_ seriously, at least not when he’s in high dudgeon over an academic disagreement. Except . . .

Except, in that moment, Newton sees himself in their interlopers’ eyes. Towering over Hermann, claws raised and curved and threatening violence, throat growling, bioluminescence flashing. A monster, violent and dangerous.

“Newton—!” is as far as Hermann gets. Then Newton is gone, beneath the water of the pool, shame and self-loathing trailing like bubbles in his wake.

“Doctor! Doctor are you— are you okay?”

No. No Hermann is decidedly not okay. Hermann’s heart is breaking. His heart is breaking and the acid is rising in its wake, and he spits it at the two men, running over now their supposed “threat” is gone.

“No thanks to _you_ imbeciles.” He feels the words as visceral, physical things—kaiju blue, burning and toxic—and the men look just as shocked as if he truly had spat.

“I—” is as far as one gets. Hermann cares not for whatever they have to say, and storms out as fast as his aching hip will take him.

After that, Newton does not return for two whole days.

* * *

The thing with the tongue went like this:

_“Oh god, oh fuck, fuck Herms please I can’t oh god.”_

Newton’s tongue is tremendously interesting. Flatter than his prick, but just as long and dexterous and the slit at the tip is deliciously sensitive. Hermann always did like something in his mouth, and now he gets the best of many worlds.

They’re in bed, Newton propped up in the corner of the room, Hermann nestled in the crook of his arms, enjoying a thorough tongue facefucking while big hands and constricting tentacles explore every inch of his flesh.

And then Newton says:

 _“Oh fuck oh yes god fuck please I’m going to I can’t oh god oh_ fuck _.”_

And his whole body spasms, and his tongue _pulses_ , and suddenly Hermann’s mouth is filled with writhing, squirming _legs_.

Newton screams in horror, both with his voice and with his mind, and Hermann pitches forward, retching. Because, yes. That’s the _other_ thing about Newton’s tongue; it’s a weapon. And Hermann knows, intimately, it’s grotesque true purpose. And perhaps his obsession with it not entirely separate to that; to a desire to regain the organ for pleasure, not corruption.

Thus here he is, staring at the neural parasite he’s just spat out onto the bedspread.

_“Oh fuck I didn’t mean I’m sorry I’m sorry oh god oh fuck—”_

A claw reaches out—to crush the thing, or simply hide it—but for one Hermann is faster, darting in to pick it up.

 _“Don’t touch it!”_ So desperate it’s almost physically painful. Except:

“For Heaven’s sake I already have one. Where is it even going to go?”

The thing certainly makes no attempt to do much of anything, other than thrash half-heartedly in Hermann’s fingers. He’s never actually seen one before, merely been subjected to its assault. It’s . . . sort of like a centipede, he supposes? But soft, almost velvety to the touch, and luminescent blue and very, very alien.

Hermann’s memories of his own . . . implantation are not strong, dulled by adrenaline and trauma. Mostly he remembers the fervor and speed at which the parasite had burrowed into his brain. He still occasionally gets nosebleeds from its passage, though according to a slew of extremely concerned PPDC doctors it did surprisingly little damage, entry wound healing fast and clean. The alien bio-mechanical equivalent of keyhole surgery. A driven little bugger, in other words; no at all like its listless sibling, curling almost pathetically around Hermann’s finger. So help him but he almost feels _sorry_ for it.

“Can you feel it?” he asks.

Newton does not want to answer this question. Newton does not want to answer _any_ questions, or in fact even be here right now, or for any of this (definition: the last year, minimum) to have happened. But Hermann is naked and in bed and Newton has never been able to deny him anything in this one situation, if absolutely nowhere else, so:

_“Um. Sort of? I know it’s there, but . . . I dunno. It’s hard to describe. Hive shit. There isn’t really a . . . a human thing to compare it to.”_

“Mm. Control?”

_“What?”_

“Can you control it?”

_“No.”_

“Shame.”

_“The fuck, dude?”_

Hermann turns to give him an absolutely withering stare. “Ah, yes. What a completely useless ability that would be; the at-will excretion of organic, remote-controlled spy drones.”

_“I— Jesus, dude.”_

“More fool the Anteverse, I suppose.”

 _“Are you seriously trying to_ improve their engineering _right now? Fucking hell, dude, I can’t even with you.”_

“And what would you prefer? That I scream and faint and carry on enough to validate your sense of self-loathing?”

_“Um, I mean. That’s kind of what I was expecting, yeah.”_

“Newton, the absolute worst thing that could happen to me with regards to your little . . . emissions has already happened. Compared to that, a mouthful of this desultory beast is practically a novelty.” A pause. “Though, to be clear, as you’re now aware of the sensation I would, in future, appreciate you calling a stop to activities before we get to this point.”

_“Jesus, yeah. Okay. Fuck, dude.”_

By now, the parasite has wrapped itself around Hermann’s finger, glow starting to fade. Hermann knows, because Newton knows, that it’s dying; mission unfulfilled. He gives into a rare sort of temptation and strokes it, gently, with his other hand. Offering comfort in its final moments, perhaps. Offering Newton comfort, by extension. It really does feel quite pleasantly velvety.

After a moment:

_“I just . . . this is too much, man. I can’t deal with this shit.”_

Hermann sighs. “And what would you propose as the alternative? Curl up and die? Surrender to the Anteverse’s whims? I think not. We will ‘deal’ with ‘this shit’ because that’s the only option we have.” When the parasite’s light goes out, the little body fades to a dull, charcoal gray. And it’s now, now that he’s holding a corpse, that Hermann’s sense of revulsion kicks in.

Newton senses it, and reaches out with a big claw to fetch the biohazards waste disposal container he keeps by the bed. Because of course he does, because this is their life now. Hermann drops the lifeless body in on top of the drying snot and cum and blue-stained tissue, knowing Newton will sift through later to find what he’s interested in and incinerate the rest. When it’s done, Newton settles back against the wall, and Hermann curls back up in the crook of his arms.

 _“This sucks. It sucks and it’s hard and everyone is just looking for an excuse to fucking kill me and I_ hate _it, dude. I just . . . I fucking . . .”_ He trails off, mind a roil of emotion.

Hermann strokes his chest, trying to offer what comfort he can. “It will get better,” he says, because he believes it. “You’re a biologist and a medical doctor; you know human bodies are grotesque and strange. You’re just used to the how and the why. It’ll be the same for this”—he pats Newton’s chest—“too. Just give it time. And everyone else . . . People who know you best, we already know you’re still _you_. Others will come to see the same. And you’ll meet new people, who will only ever know you as you are now. For them, the oddity will be that you’d ever been any other way,”

Newton’s arms tighten around him, seeking comfort in the familiar angles of bone. _“Fuck, dude. How are you . . . how are you so_ good _at this? Like ninety percent of the time you’re such a fucking infuriating asshole except somehow when it actually matters you’re like, I dunno. Fucking Yoda all of a sudden.”_

Hermann laughs at this, kissing the smooth scales in front of him. “Only when it matters,” he says. “Only for you.”

* * *

_“Okay. Presentation of findings on the Investigation into the Audiographic Predilections of one Doctor H. Gottlieb, PhD, by me, Doctors N. Geiszler, PhDs.”_

Two weeks after the incident in the new lab. It’s Wednesday, mid-afternoon. Hermann has been tearing his hair out all morning over h-field equations that just will not work out and, despite the sneer on his face as Newton forcibly spins his chair around, he’s honestly grateful for the distraction.

(Newton knows this, of course. He may have guessed it, before, but now he _knows_ , in the way only someone bonded via a psychic alien parasite can.)

“Oh, yes,” says Hermann. “Please _do_ explain my own musical tastes to me. I could never possibly have worked them out on my own.”

_“Well, first of all, you are super fucking hipster, dude. You’re, like, peak Mr. Before It Was Cool.”_

“I think we’re both fairly well aware I have never been, nor ever will be, ‘cool.’”

 _“Yeah, see. That’s what you_ want _people to think. But I, Newt— nay,_ the _Newt, have objective evidence to establish that you are, in fact, certifiably quote-unquote ‘cool’. At least when it comes to liking crap niche British music.”_

“Oh, is that so, Doctor Neg? Well, please. Do go on. _Astound_ me with your insight.”

_“Okay, so. From oldest to newest: classic Jamaican ska. Universal love.”_

“Correct. I already gave you that one for free.”

Newton shrugs, conceding the point. Then: _“Some 2 Tone. You’ll tolerate Madness if you have to, but you prefer Akrylykz and The Selector. You make a special exception for “Saturday Night, Sunday Morning”, one of your favorite songs, for reasons yet unknown.”_

“Bad year at uni,” Hermann says, because he figures Newton’s earned it. “Helped me get through it.”

_“Noted, appreciated, thank you.”_

“All you ever had to do was ask. Please, continue.”

 _“You_ loathe _third-wave and punk ska; too much punk influence, obviously, and too American, and too mainstream. As previously established, you hate punk for being ‘too capitalist.’”_

“Indeed, but . . .?”

This actually throws Newton, just a little, and Hermann smirks. An avenue yet unexplored. _“‘But’?”_

“You didn’t get a ‘but’?”

_“I confess I did not, Doctor.”_

“A shame. John Lydon. I had an awful crush as a youth, for my sins, and listened to far more PiL than was healthy.”

Newton actually gasps, out loud, ecstatic with this new information. _“No. Way.”_

“Way indeed. ‘Rise’ is a particular favorite.”

 _“Fucking_ noted _, dude. Holy shit I love you so much right now.”_

“Noted but unrelated. Put aside for later perusal.”

_“So fucked perusing. Okay, so . . . uh. You like jungle. DJ Ron, Kenny Ken. Heavy backbeats, syncopation, repetition. Real trance shit.”_

“Correct.”

_“Softer side: you like broken beat. 4hero, Afronaut. Chill female lyricists singing trendy elevator music in expensive bars.”_

“Vanessa’s influence, actually. She has a brief stint as a vocalist at university.”

_“No shit.”_

“Shit, indeed.”

_“Dude, I’m totally going to tell her you said that about her band.”_

“And I’m sure, if you’re exceptionally sweet, she’ll hand you an old recording to confirm it.” Then, because this _is_ his wife they’re talking about, the beloved mother of his perfect daughter: “Her vocals were exceptional. It was everything else that was the issue.”

 _“We can fix that but, moving on: you_ do _like dubstep. Oldskool dubstep. Skream, Loefah. Inaccessible trancy woop-whoop shit.”_

“I have been known to enjoy the odd ‘inaccessible trancy woop-whoop’ track here and there, yes.”

_“Ref: fucking hipster. But, counterpoint and moving on: grime. Original flavor and sinogrime, which I assume you’ve picked up locally?”_

“You assume correctly, Doctor.”

_“When you were, what? Sneaking out to underground fucking clubs when I wasn’t looking.”_

“Shocking, the cover charges and dress codes a PPDC ID can make disappear.” Hermann has no particular enjoyment of masses of people, or loud clubs in general, but yes. He has been known to, in the past, slip out with his laptop to stake out a dark corner and listen and code. The novelty of it has even gotten him laid on more than one occasion, during his and Newton’s not-infrequent off-again periods.

_“Which brings me to the finale, the one act I have discovered you will straight-shit fucking bop to, no matter the track or the mood or the time of day.”_

He pauses for the melodrama of it all, standing up and making _come on_ gestures with his big hands. Hermann obliges him with a gesture and a slight bow, and Newton blurts:

_“Dizzee Rascal. Dizzee fucking Rascal.”_

Smirking, Hermann gives him a clap. “Congratulations, Doctor. You have, indeed, via careful application of the scientific method, discovered my most embarrassingly, as you say, ‘mainstream’ favorite.”

 _“Dizzee Rascal._ Really _?”_

“I’ll have you know the entire world owes Mr. Mills a debt of gratitude; I sincerely doubt the code to the first Jaeger would’ve been completed without the, as they say, ‘ill rhymes’ and ‘dope beats’ of _The Fifth_.” To this day, he can’t listen to “Life Keeps Moving On” without getting flashbacks so hard he starts shaking. “I even sent him a missive of appreciation after Brawler Yukon was successful against Karloff.”

_“No fucking way. No way you did. No way this is real. You’re fucking shitting me.”_

“You can see into my brain, Newton. You know it’s true. And if you require more tangible evidence . . . I assume you’ve never listened closely to the lyrics of ‘Space’? I believe if you do you’ll discover I have a little shout-out, as they say.”

 _“No way. No way, dude, I am Googling this right now holy shit.”_ And he does, scrambling back across the room to retrieve his phone. Hermann counts down to the inevitable: _“Holy shit you_ do _. Dude, you got a shout-out from a_ legit rockstar _. On an_ actual album _. Like, permanently forever. How did I never know this?”_

Hermann sniffs, feigning nonchalance. “You never asked.” Honestly, near as Hermann can tell, _no one_ in the ‘Dome has either noticed or asked. It’s always been his little secret, one he’s never felt particularly compelled to share. He does, after all, have An Image to maintain; has always been tremendously careful to keep his personal and professional lives separate.

With one exception, of course. Who’s currently still flicking through his phone. When the hypnotic grind of “Superman” starts up from the speaker in Newton’s side of the lab, Hermann just bites back a smirk and calls:

“Skip the thirteenth track, if you wouldn’t mind,” and gets back to work.

* * *

The next day, Hermann stages an intervention.

Newton has spent the morning reading through a paper on a potential mechanism for broad-spectrum k-virus immunity from researchers at his alma mater. His vocalizations have gone from mildly intrigued, circa 0813, and elevated through mildly scornful, to disgusted, to outraged roughly every hour thereafter. He finished the paper at 1137and has spent the subsequent time loudly and emphatically ranting over MIT’s alleged precipitous decline in both intelligence and research quality since his departure. The parts that aren’t expletive-filled ad hominems against Doctors Burke, Wong, and Bhatt are densely technical; what Hermann has, over the years, come to realize is Newton working out not just a rebuttal but his own new line of inquiry. Hermann’s participatory requirements in these events are largely relegated to, a) being physically present within an appropriate radius for Newton to rant at, b) making the occasional “hmm” and “tsk” sounds to keep Newton on track and, if he’s feeling particularly adventurous, c) actively challenging some of Newton’s more ridiculous proposals.

Hermann _loves_ Newton on an academic tear. The man is an insufferable child with abhorrent taste and a Cat V-sized self-destructive streak, but he’s also _brilliant_. Hermann loathes the word “genius” and always has; a plebeian platitude for self-congratulating morons who think internet IQ tests measure objective worth. Meaning Hermann would never apply such a descriptor to someone like Newton, someone who can so effortlessly grasp and combine disparate disciplines as to make madness seem sublime. Watching him work is breathtaking, divine. That Hermann gets to see it—that Hermann is someone Newton considers worthy of _joining in_ —is a gift that has never failed to humble him, particularly during those times he was . . . less than appreciative of receiving it.

Which is why, as the clock tick over 1200, Hermann stands and says: “Come on. Tell me on the way.” He pushes against Newton’s huge bicep, encouraging him to move, and Newton’s so deep in his own head he doesn’t even question it, just goes.

They get all the way to the mess, in fact, before enough of their surroundings registers, possibly because of the sudden, inescapable silence that descents at Newton’s entry.

_“Hermann? Dude, where . . .? I can’t—”_

“It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry. Continue your little rant.”

_“Dude, I shouldn’t. I need to go. People don’t want me here.”_

“Shockingly, I don’t give a single fig. Continue.”

_“Hermann . . .”_

“I believe you were explaining to me, in excruciating depth, how Bhatt’s quote-unquote ‘dank-ass genius-brain take’ on using a neutralized viral sample as a vaccine base is going to cause a quote-unquote ‘tidal wave of dissolved sons of bitches’?”

A pause, then: _“Wow. I’m not sure what I’m more surprised at; the fact you actually said ‘ass’ right or the fact you apparently pay attention when I yell this stuff at you.”_

Hermann sighs, handing a plastic try to Newton as he peruses today’s food offerings (not as limited as during the war, still in no way equivalent to the days before it). This part, they’ve done a million times. Only having one free hand and a lurching, uneven gait can make managing lunch . . . awkward. Or at least limit Hermann’s options to things that won’t tip or spill. Even at their least civil, Newton has never begrudged him this assistance, and has never made Hermann ask for it, either. Simply accepted it, like there could never be another way.

“Of course I pay attention,” Hermann says, startling a j-tech standing next to him. The tech turns and almost says something before Hermann snaps, “Not to you.” Then: “And they are completely separate words with completely different etymological roots and you know it.”

_“Tell that to the Marshal.”_

“The rhoticity or lack thereof of the Marshal’s accent is not at issue. The quality of work of your former colleagues is.” Wonton noodle soup it is. Hermann takes a bowl, and begins the operation of loading Newton up with it, a spoon, chopsticks, extra chili condiment, napkins, and a scone, cream, jam, and knife for dessert. Plus a cup of the mess’s cheap, execrable Earl Gray while he’s got a captive wait staff.

 _“Ugh. You are such a stubborn fucking asshole. Fine, whatever. We’ll do this shit your way. So you remember I told you like a million years ago that like Burke and I had this, like, thing in grad school. Not like a sex thing,’cause y’know I was like, super illegal, but like a he-hated-my-underage-guts thing . . .”_ And he’s off again.

Hermann finds them a small table in the corner, enough space around the edge for Newton to sit, leaning his small arms on the back of the second chair. He is keenly, _keenly_ aware of stares they’re attracting; some hostile and disgusted, yes. But many merely curious. Every time Newton’s attention begins to drift to them, Hermann brings him back in with pointed questions, and eventually he relaxes. Sort of. Enough to start gesturing even, at least until a startled gasp brings another wave of startled self-loathing.

As Hermann is tearing open his scone, he hears: “Newt! Think fast, brother!” and sees a movement that make him cringe, instinct drilled into him from his schooldays.

But Mr. Choi is, of course, not aiming for him, and Newton’s eyesight and reflexes are keen enough now that he plucks the basketball out of the air with cinematic-level nonchalance.

“Table tennis! Saturday,” Choi calls across the mess. “We’ll take you, two on one.”

“He’ll be there,” Hermann says, over Newt’s spluttered protests.

“You too, Doc.”

Hermann waves, noncommittal, despite knowing he’ll be there if it means getting Newton out of the lab and his own head.

 _“Your not as subtle as you think you are, dude,”_ comes the accusation as the ball sails back over Hermann’s head.

“Newton, I gave up on subtle with you over a decade ago. This is an intervention.”

_“It’s a pile of shit, is what it is. Things aren’t just gonna . . . go back like they were before. Getting smashed by Tendo at table tennis and smashing dipshits and their dipshit papers in peer review and—”_

“Why not?” Then, before Newton has a chance to answer. “Admittedly I suspect now Mr. Choi will have a hard time beating _you_ , but why on earth do you think you’ll need to stop your academic work?”

_“Um. The whole part where the PPDC is busy pretending I don’t exist?”_

“Newton, you objectively do exist and Lord forbid you ever let anyone forget it. The PPDC would prefer your . . . condition to not be publicly known, but it’s hardly a required disclaimer on everything you publish. You could sign up for Twitter right now and regale the planet with every inane thought that crosses your mind, or post your godawful guitar playing to YouTube, or any one of a million other things. Your life has changed, yes. But for Heaven’s sake, you’re not _dead_. Stop acting like it.”

And Newton stares at him, incredulous, until: _“You . . . think I should post my guitar playing to YouTube?”_ Because of course that’s the one thing Newton’s brains latched onto. Of course it was.

“I’m sure someone out there would appreciate it,” Hermann sighs, deciding to be magnanimous. “Just as I’m sure the academic world would appreciate you ripping Doctors Burke et al. to shreds in peer review, as you’re so obviously itching to do. As _they’re_ obviously itching for you to do, given they emailed you their work in the first place.”

And Newton thinks about this. Hermann can _feel_ him thinking about it, realigning his entire perspective because, yes, apparently the poor sod really had been thinking he was going to have to play dead from now unto eternity. So Hermann gathers the detritus from his lunch (soup, surprisingly good; wontons, bland and starchy; scones, tough), and picks up his tray to take to the return. He pats Newton’s shoulder as he goes past. “Come on. Let’s go back; you can start work on your scathing rebuttal.”

On the way out, Tendo catches their eyes and mimes table tennis gestures. After a moment, Newt gives him an awkward thumbs up.

The next morning, Hermann wakes up to an empty bed and an email. A link, to a newly created YouTube channel with one single video upload; a cover of The Specials. Despite the lack of vocals and the obnoxiously punk-metal distortion, Hermann recognizes it immediately. “What I Like Most About You Is Your Girlfriend”, the chaotic wall of Newton’s side of the lab the only visuals, illuminated by organic, flashing blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Broke: Hermann hates Newt's music because he's a huge square who only listens to opera or whatever.  
>  Woke: Hermann hates Newt's music because he's a fucking hipster for London club tracks.
> 
> ... anyway I think we're done here. Phew.
> 
> _No thanks for the birthday cake_  
>  _And the upright cigarettes that acted as the flame_  
>  _Why would I watch the filters burn_  
>  _When you could take your aim and I could watch those barrels burst?_  
>  _Come on I'm English, I'll even[queue and wait my turn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL9ETb1b8bw)._


End file.
